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A quick ring of the bell summoned a midday repast fit for an invalid. Neither Enzo nor Dr Venier nor Dr Malvestio thought Fiore’s pulse strong enough for coffee just yet. Steamed milk and honey must have seemed a poor replacement to him, but he submitted to it without complaint. Enzo just felt glad he drank it all. In just a few short days his already-slender frame had gone gaunt. The milk would put at least a little meat back on the bones now visible through his skin. Enzo’s gaze lingered on the curve of his all-too-distinct clavicle laid bare by the over-large nightshirt slipping off his shoulder.
Fiore began to shiver. Enzo laid his hand gently on his arm.
Fiore lolled his head back to look up at him, then rolled his eyes between Enzo and the bed. His voice arose in a soft creak. “Do I have to go back?”
Enzo hesitated. His heart demanded he obey Fiore’s whims. However, his mind knew that if he wanted Fiore to survive, certain needs must be met, regardless of the patient’s wishes. “You’re cold.”
“No I’m not.” The lie, obvious and childish, sprang from Fiore’s lips like a reflex. Both men knew it would never be believed. But for Fiore to have attempted it in the first place bespoke a certain desperation.
Enzo glanced over the room for an alternative solution. His wrapping-gown hung over the back of a chair. A few strides sufficed to retrieve it. Then he had only to help Fiore stand again on his trembling legs so he could slip his arms into the gown’s sleeves. Enzo tugged it up over his shoulders; it slipped off at once, Fiore being far narrower in that regard than Enzo himself. Indeed, the garment’s dimensions seemed to swallow Fiore up altogether. The hem that hung at Enzo’s mid-calf swirled down around Fiore’s heels. He looked as though he were drowning in a tide of black silk. But he didn’t seem to mind. His shivering trailed off as Enzo bundled him up in it. And as he settled down onto the windowsill again, he buried his face further into the robe’s shoulder.
“It smells like you,” Fiore mumbled.
Enzo’s heart did a curious flutter. Even so, he resolved to have a gown made especially for Fiore. It would be easy enough as the tailor already had Fiore’s measurements. He could just tack it on to the same order when he asked for a new set of everyday wear to replace what Fiore had lost to the filth of the catacombs. Such an order, however, would take some time to fulfill. Which meant if Fiore wanted to wear something besides Enzo’s own over-sized wardrobe…
“I had thought,” Enzo ventured, “we might send Carlotta out to theKingfisherto retrieve some of your clothes. With your permission.”
Fiore considered this for a moment and assented with a nod.
His quietude broke Enzo’s heart afresh. Enzo cleared his throat. “Is there anything else you’d like her to bring over?”
Fiore shrugged, a gesture which brought his narrow shoulder almost entirely out of the robe’s voluminous sleeve. “Clothes, as you said. And my zibaldone. Pretty much what I brought to Wolf’s Head, if she recalls.”
Enzo felt certain she would. Carlotta seemed to recall every detail, no matter how minute. It was the work of a moment to send her out with this instruction. Then he returned to Fiore’s side where he belonged.
Fiore remained quiet. As silent and pale and still as his false twin carved from marble in Artemisia’s workshop. Only the eyes hinted at life, casting their dark gaze over the chamber, lingering on the coffered ceiling, the twist-fluted columns, the quatrefoil windows—details Enzo had taken for granted since his return to the city.
“So this is the fabled Ca’ Scaevola,” Fiore murmured at last.
“Fabled?” Enzo echoed with a note of amusement.
Fiore didn’t meet his gaze. “Never thought I’d see the interior.”
Whatever reply Enzo thought he might make died on his tongue. Fiore had spoken without a trace of bitterness. Instead his words carried just the barest hint of weary resignation—something his teasing tone might have disguised, if he’d had the heart for teasing. The tone of one who assumed himself unworthy of sights he longed to witness. And the sound of which gave Enzo’s heart fresh wounds. For Fiore was more than worthy of Ca’ Scaevola. He was worthy of all the world. Any house small or grand which would shut its doors to him deserved to burn.
Instead of saying any of this, however, Enzo instead blurted, “I could give you a tour, if you’d like.”
Fiore turned a startled gaze upon him.
“When you’re feeling stronger,” Enzo added.
Fiore continued to regard him with his unreadable marble-carved expression. Then, ever so softly, he replied, “I’d like that.”
Enzo fancied he saw the ghost of his former smile in those dark eyes.
“Is it just you here?” Fiore enquired. “Of your family, I mean.”
“For now,” Enzo replied. “The house belongs to my mother, properly speaking, but she prefers the seafaring life now that my sisters and I are all grown. Lucrezia dwells in the princely palace, and Giovanna remains in the countryside for the growing season to better manage her fields.”
“So you have the full run of the place,” Fiore concluded.
“Indeed,” Enzo confirmed with a smile.
Fiore did not return the smile. His fingertips worried the wrapping-gown’s lapel. “Do your sisters often interfere in your affairs here?”
Enzo furrowed his brow. “Not often, no.”
“Is there anything that might provoke them to interfere?”
